point with which his own conscience did not interfere. And at last it was ruled by the judge that this examination might go on;—whereupon both Sir Richard and Mr. Steelyard sat down as though they were perfectly satisfied. Kenneby, on being again asked, said that he did remember the old trial.
'It is necessary, you know, that the jury should hear you, and if you look at them and speak to them, they would stand a better chance.' Kenneby for a moment allowed his eye to travel up to the jury box, but it instantly fell again, and fixed itself on the lawyer's face. 'You do remember that trial?'
'Yes, sir, I remember it,' whispered Kenneby.
'Do you remember my asking you then whether you had been in the habit of witnessing Sir Joseph Mason's signature?'
'Did you ask me that, sir?'
'That is the question which I put to you. Do you remember my doing so?'
'I dare say you did, sir.'
'I did, and I will now read your answer. We shall give to the jury a copy of the proceedings of that trial, my lord, when we have proved it,—as of course we intend to do.'
And then there was another little battle between the barristers. But as Lady Mason was now being tried for perjury, alleged to have been committed at that other trial, it was of course indispensable that all the proceedings of that trial should be made known to the jury.
'You said on that occasion,' continued Furnival, 'that you were sure you had witnessed three signatures of Sir Joseph's that summer,—that you had probably witnessed three in July, that you were quite sure you had witnessed three in one week in July, that you were nearly sure you had witnessed three in one day, that you could not tell what day that might have been, and that you had been used as a witness so often that you really did not remember anything about it. Can you say whether that was the purport of the evidence you gave then?'
'If it's down there———' said John Kenneby, and then he stopped himself.
'It is down here; I have read it.'
'I suppose it's all right,' said Kenneby.
'I must trouble you to speak out,' said the judge; 'I cannot hear you, and it is impossible that the jury should do so.' The judge's words were not uncivil, but his voice was harsh, and the only perceptible consequence of the remonstrance was to be seen in the thick drops of perspiration standing on John Kenneby's brow.
'That is the evidence which you gave on the former trial? May the jury presume that you then spoke the truth to the best of your knowledge?'
